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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23250502">Dying 101</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuval25/pseuds/Yuval25'>Yuval25</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Dean Keeps Dying, Eventual Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Reincarnation, probably</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:01:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,619</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23250502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuval25/pseuds/Yuval25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean dies. And is reborn. And dies. And is reborn.<br/>It fucking sucks.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Whole Reincarnation Thing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a weird one. Will have many more chapters. Hopefully a happy actual ending. Eventually. Bear with me, okay? Right. Let's do this!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean is a bundle of guilt, sitting in that hospital room waiting for the doctors to tell him what he already knows. It doesn't help that Sammy sits by his bedside, ever the doting wife, wiping tears from his eyes with a folded up honest-to-god handkerchief and repeating that Dean is going to be alright over and over again as if saying the words would make them come true.</p>
<p>Because they both know Dean isn't going to be alright, and no amount of sniffling or snot covered handkerchiefs are going to change that.</p>
<p>"You're going to be okay," Dean offers as condolences, patting Sammy's shoulder awkwardly. He wonders when he'd become so indifferent to his own death. Sammy's pain has not gotten any easier to witness, of course. Seeing his brother cry is always the hardest part. But, well. The kid could whip up a smile every now and then, couldn't he?</p>
<p>"I'm not letting you die, Dean. There has to be a… a ritual, or something."</p>
<p>Right. This is one of those worlds where they are hunters. Funny thing, actually, since Dean's original – kept safe under lock and key because he's had so many of them, it's hard to keep track – had been a hunter as well.</p>
<p>"Dude, get a girl. Settle down. Have kids, call them Dean and Deanna. I want that for you," Dean recites his own parting words, repeated so many times they've lost their meaning.</p>
<p>"I am not letting you die, not gonna- I'm not-" Sam chants between sobs, and Dean, feeling weary and old and thoroughly completely done with this whole reincarnation deal, sighs and pats his shoulder some more.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Easiest and Most Difficult</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's relatively early, sometimes, and others, not so much.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter doubles in length. Is that a sign?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's relatively early, sometimes, and others, not so much. Now, approaching ninety and creaking like an old wooden chair, Dean lowers himself to bed with the help of his brother and groans when the soft mattress makes an impact with his fragile spine.</p>
<p>"Easy there, tiger," he jokes hoarsely. It's not exactly a hardship to see that neither of them can hold up a comparison to an agile, feline predator anymore. Not for the last forty years, at least.</p>
<p>"Shut up, Dean," Sammy rolls his eyes and sits down beside him with great effort, spotted skin wrinkled and paper-thin as he strokes Dean's forehead and traces the line between his eyebrows with a thumb.</p>
<p>"Where's Sally?" Dean asks, relaxing into his familiar bed and the even more familiar feeling of his brother against his side.</p>
<p>"With the grandkids downstairs. They wanted to come say goodbye," Sammy's eyes are wet, but he doesn't cry. <em>Small mercies</em>, thinks Dean with a satisfied hum.</p>
<p>"Better call them up, then. Not getting any younger," he quips, voice hoarse.</p>
<p>"Tell Amy I said hi when you see her," <em>in heaven</em>, is what Sammy means. Dean knows the man better than anybody, always has. It's easy to read between the lines.</p>
<p>"Your nag of a woman is the last thing I want to see when I end up in the pearly white gates, Sammy. I got enough of her in life," Dean whines, managing to sound playful despite the way his voice cracks with age. He won't be seeing Amy, or any pearly gates. The most he will be seeing for the next few months will be nothing, nothing, and a whole bunch of nothing. At least the uterus allows for sound effects, like his mother's gentle voice and his father's wordless humming. Lonely, but not entirely unbearable.</p>
<p>"I hope she's your roommate," Sam sneers back without heat.</p>
<p>They get quiet, and Dean shifts closer as Sam bends down to place a delicate kiss on his forehead. His lips are chapped, but it's still Sammy, so it's the best thing Dean has felt for days. He's going to miss that until they meet again.</p>
<p>"See you soon, brother," Sam whispers into his skin. Dean turns his head to peck his cheek. <em>You have no idea</em>, he wants to say.</p>
<p>"Better not take too long, or I'mma kick your ass," he smiles fondly. "Now go fetch my girl and little tykes. I've gotta say some things to them."</p>
<p>Sam gets up with slowness of the old man he is and pads over to the door by help of the walking cane he'd started using sometime last year. He throws one last, dimpled smile over his shoulder and disappears out the door.</p>
<p>Dean sinks further into the bed with a tired, content sigh, thinking of his many lives and how this particular parting has to be the easiest and most difficult of them all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Twenty Freaking Billion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And then there are times when Dean's light snuffs out sooner than he expects.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Another short one for the, well, not road. Quarantine, am I right?  I'm posting them as I'm writing them. Hope you're all staying healthy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>And then there are times when Dean's light snuffs out sooner than he expects.</p>
<p>It takes them both by surprise, how the ice gives way under Dean's feet. In the split-second Dean gets before he sinks below eye level in ice cold water, he catches Sammy's horror-stricken face with a sense of remorse that a child of nine should not have the emotional capacity to experience. Thank heavens Dean is not actually nine years old. By now, he should be about twenty freaking billion.</p>
<p>"Samm-" he manages before his mouth fills with frigid water and his eyes bug out. He hopes Sammy doesn't do something stupid like follow him onto the crackling ice on the lake top, or try to save him like the heroes in the movies Dean sometimes lets him watch when mom and dad aren't around to moan about how they aren't fit for children Sammy's age.</p>
<p>It's a short, unsatisfying life. He hasn't had the opportunity to teach Sammy how to pick up girls. He hasn't gotten to tease him about his obsession with school, or stand as his best man at his wedding. He hasn't had a single sip of whiskey, or drove a mile behind the wheel, or handed out a credit card that had his own name on it.</p>
<p>But he has had both parents, in this life. He has heard his mother sing. He has seen his father laugh, if not every day, then at least every other day. And he has fallen in love. With Sammy. Like he does every time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. What. The. Fuck.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes, Sammy is a girl.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you don't laugh, you're a monster. This is hilarious.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes, Sammy is a girl.</p>
<p><em>What the fuck</em>, Dean thinks when Mom gently places a baby girl into his chubby toddler arms.</p>
<p><em>What the fuck</em>, he thinks later, when the baby girl starts walking and squeaking his name, tiny baby girl arms waving tiny baby girl fists making tiny baby girl grabby hands at him.</p>
<p><em>What the actual, living fuck</em>, he thinks much, much later, when the baby girl turns twelve years old and he finds a notebook scribbled with their names inside doodled hearts in her bedroom.</p>
<p>What. The. Fuck.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. An Itch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean wishes there would be an itch. A sign. A premonition. Something to warn him that he is about to die.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I swear there's plot coming. This isn't just one of those, a whole bunch of drabbles, sort of fic. I have a plan. A very plan-ish plan. You'll see.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sammy is drunk. He's so drunk, Dean doesn't know if he even recognizes him. Huh. Story of Dean's life. Lives.</p><p>"C'mon, big guy," Dean gentles Sammy down the path from his friend's house to the Impala, parked conveniently between two empty spots.</p><p>"You're nice," Sam slurs, hanging onto Dean like he would drown if he were to let go. Which, stranger things have happened. Dean wouldn't put it past the universe to suddenly turn this puddle or that a sinkhole seven feet deep.</p><p>"Am I?" Dean humors him. They finally reach the car, and Dean leans Sam against it while he fiddles with the keys.</p><p>Strong, uncoordinated octopus arms wrap around Dean's neck and the kid is once more glued to his side. A ruddy nose, cold from the dry chill of late October, rubs against Dean's throat, tickling him. He squirms, but manages not to drop Sammy on the ground, holding Sammy close with one of his own hands on Sammy's lower back. The shirt the kid's wearing is way too thin for the weather, so as far as Dean is concerned, the sooner the get into the car and crank up the heat, the better.</p><p>"I like you," Sam whispers once Dean has him settled comfortable in the Impala, a seatbelt the only thing preventing Sam from throwing himself at Dean again.</p><p>Dean laughs. "You know what, Sammy? I like you too."</p><p>Sam is drunk, so it doesn't count.</p><p>Plus, it's worth it to see Sammy's face split on a wide grin, dimples digging into both cheeks, eyes sparkling with joy. Dean's heart aches. The kid will be the death of him. Or, well, thereabouts. Statistically, there has to be a lifetime cut short because Dean's heart can't take the sheer force of Sam's blinding smile.</p><p>Dean walks around the car and gets into the driver seat, starting up the engine.</p><p>Sam hums from his perch on the old leather, eyes contemplative and fixed half on Dean and half into the distance. Into the air.</p><p>"Something you want to share with the class, there, Sammy?" Dean asks, amused.</p><p>"I think I'm in love with you."</p><p>Wow, kid sure doesn't beat around the bush.</p><p>Well, in for a penny…</p><p>"I think I'm in love with you too," Dean says, softer than he has intended.</p><p>It doesn't count, he insists in his mind. Sam is drunk. He won't remember this in the morning.</p><p>Dean shakes his head. Now is not the time. Sammy's wasted, and Dean needs to drive.</p><p>He pulls the Impala out of 'Park' and begins to roll the car down the gravel road.</p><p>Dean wishes there would be an itch. A sign. A premonition. Something to warn him that he is about to die. If he knew, he would have parked the Impala back in the same secluded spot, and pulled Sammy close. He would have kissed him and held him and given him a better memory, given him closure. For both of them. He would have made sure Sam remembers it, is left with a proof of his requited feelings.</p><p>Sammy's not in the car when it happens, thank god. But he is right outside of it, puking his guts out into the blooming field of dirt Dean had parked the Impala next to in a haste not to get any pre-digested oatmeal-looking barf on the dashboard.</p><p>"What the hell were you thinking?" he sighs exasperatedly, listening to the retching sounds coming from the open passenger door, not expecting an answer and not getting one, either.</p><p>Or maybe he does get one. He'll never know, because there's a truck barreling into the back of the Impala and causing the car to swerve. It hits the safety rail with deadly force, metal crunching and folding like paper.</p><p>As the car hits the perfect angle mid-swerve for Dean to catch sight of his brother, the kid is still kneeling in the dirt, mouth open on what might be a scream, eyes fixed on Dean's bloodied face.</p><p>Dean has about half a second to feel grateful that the kid is alive and well, before he is knocked unconscious and never wakes up again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Way to Go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What a way to go.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why this fic is rated E.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What a way to go.</p>
<p>Dean's heels dig into the thin, overwashed bedsheet, light gray and coughing out clouds of dust with every shift of their bodies. The floor is not any better, coated with signs of disuse and abandonment except for where their shoes have left clear trails from the door to the windows to the bed. They have only lingered long enough to lay down salt lines and spread their one and only sheet over the one and only mattress in this place, before falling into bed together in a tangle of limbs and lips.</p>
<p>Dean's boots and jeans are scattered somewhere, as well as Sam's shirt, but Dean doesn't have enough blood left in his brain right now to recall their exact position. His socks are threadbare, and Sammy's hair keeps catching on his fingers – kid probably likes that, if the sounds he's making are any indication – and the whole place reeks of mold, but there's a warm mouth doing unspeakable things to Dean's nether regions and he's not one to break the spell, as it is.</p>
<p>"Fuck, Sammy, don't stop," Dean gasps through the pressure he's exerting on his own skull, pushing his head back into a spring in the mattress. He groans low in his throat as Sammy does something that makes tingles run down his thighs and all the way to his toes, making them curl inside his dirt-soled socks.</p>
<p>Sam hums and picks up the pace, and if the kid doesn't watch it, he's going to get a hairful of sticky sustenance before long. Dean doubts there's enough water pressure in the hose jutting out of the wall on the exterior wooden wall of the deserted cabin to effectively get rid of that kind of carnal evidence, so that is something they should try to avoid if possible. Not to mention, lack of hot water. Dad has left them at many a shithole in their lives – even not counting Dean's share of countless lifetimes – but this one takes the cake on the 'No One Can Hear You Scream' front.</p>
<p>Dean taps out, panting like he has just completed a ten-mile sprint uphill, and Sammy pulls back with an indecent slurp and a shit-eating grin on his smug face.</p>
<p>"Can't last?" the cheeky bastard has the nerve to quip.</p>
<p>"I'm not the one who creamed his undies at an iHOP." Dean gives a tug and is rewarded with a bitch face to end all bitch faces.</p>
<p>"You swore to never bring it up again," the kid bites out, flushed and blushing chest to ears.</p>
<p>Dean smiles, so thoroughly smitten with his kid it's a wonder his heart hasn't exploded yet. Huh. That would be a first, even for him. Gently, he slides his hand through sweat-damp locks that span from light caramel to dark, rich chocolate in color. "Get up here, c'mon."</p>
<p>Sammy doesn't waste a second, doesn't linger teasingly like he sometimes does. Instead, he leaves the nook he has fashioned for himself between Dean's spread legs and crawls on all fours to settle across Dean's lap. Some floundering and readjusting later, to accommodate for their new position on the untrusty, old surface of the Mattress of Unknown Origin, Sam straddles Dean's hips comfortably, hands on Dean's chest for balance.</p>
<p>He's beautiful like that, all blazing intensity and potential power. Still growing into his shoulders, gaining height like he's trying to set a record, the softness of youth and gangly limbs of yet another growth spurt that Dean is absolutely in love with making way for maturity, self-assuredness and muscles. So much muscle, in fact, that Dean feels faint just fantasizing of the moment he can climb Sam like a tree without landing both of them in the emergency room with broken bones and matching concussions.</p>
<p>Preparations are sloppy and scant. They make due with spit and the accumulative pre-ejaculate leaking out of their respective dicks. It's careless, hurried and leaves room for decorum, but they both can't care less by the time their breathing resembles the sounds of an elephant giving birth and their bodies are quivering with heat and need. Sam's fingers tremble on Dean's face as Dean lines up and pushes in, and Dean has to remind his brother to inhale and exhale with every single thrust, because it seems like Sammy has forgotten what his lungs are for.</p>
<p>It's always like that between them. Always been like that, too. Dean can remember times, in this life and the ones before, when the act of lovemaking felt more like an attempt to merge into one, single entity. It's the soulmate thing, probably, partially, but mostly it's just Dean and Sam and the way they have always been and will always be. Dean has lived and died enough times to accept that as a fact, a truth, a given. There will never be a moment when Dean doesn't want to be as close as humanly possible to his brother.</p>
<p>Sam yelps when Dean pulls the firefighter tuck and roll drill, only this time it's Sam's knees that get tucked on both sides of Dean's ribs when Dean heaves up and traps Sammy under him. He has slipped out during the – if he may say, impressive – maneuver, and they both groan when he reaches down to guide himself back where he's supposed to be.</p>
<p>Sam begins choking out quick little ah-ah-ah's as Dean's pace picks up, the mattress dipping and rising beneath them. Dean's kidneys receive quite a beating from Sam's tense heels, the kid's legs wrapped around Dean's waist for a better angle, Achilles tendons helplessly taut.</p>
<p>It's too hot in the cabin, the air stifling. Dean's sweat falls in beads onto Sam's chest. Sammy's nails bite long, cursive lines into the meat of Dean's upper back as the kid moans expletives into Dean's shoulder. Dean's throat feels sore, every desperate inhale ending on a growl or a groan of Sam's name or some term of endearment. The usual dirty talk is absent. They're both just trying not to pass out from lack of oxygen.</p>
<p>Dean's head is spinning, and he rests his forehead on the mattress beside Sam's head for a moment. It's way too hot.</p>
<p>"Dean, what-"</p>
<p>"Gimme a second," he wheezes, feeling nauseated and weak.</p>
<p>"You're getting old," Sam giggles, breathing hard and squirming beneath him.</p>
<p>Dean resumes the piston-like drive of his hips, fucking into Sammy in long, powerful thrusts. A minute, two minutes. Dean forces himself to take deep breathes, his deep inhales a counter to Sam's rapid, shallow sips of air. A few times he nearly falls off, catching himself right before the weight of his body begins pulling him sideways.</p>
<p>He feels like he's floating. His movements are uncoordinated and uneven. <em>Where is all the fucking air?</em></p>
<p>"Did I tire you out?" Sammy's voice cuts, clear and crisp, through the blurriness. Dean's stomach gives a painful squeeze but thankfully doesn't lurch.</p>
<p>"Shut your trap or I'll do it for you." Dean's vision has gone hazy, and in the back of his mind he perceives that this is not normal.</p>
<p>"I'd like to see you try."</p>
<p>"Brat." The word is hardly more than a whisper. Through the fog that has slowly taken over Dean's thought process, alarm rings dimly in his ears.</p>
<p>"Jerk."</p>
<p>"Bitch."</p>
<p>Whatever Sammy may or may not answer is lost on Dean.</p>
<p>Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, and Dean will later look back and figure it must be the mattress, or the dust. Some kind of toxin.</p>
<p>Still, though, what a way to go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Sorry Not Sorry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean doesn't feel particularly regretful.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You have to admit that this makes a lot of sense.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean doesn't feel particularly regretful for the empty pill bottles and popped tablets scattered on the bedspread.</p>
<p>When his dad finally tears down the door – literally, he just, knocks it to the floor with his shoulder – and bursts into the room panting and shouting, followed by his mom, the panic skyrockets. Their panic, anyway. Dean watches the proceedings with gradually numbing fingers and increasing drowsiness that lets him wander into his own head and remember all the good times in this life.</p>
<p>"What have you done?!" his mom wails, throwing herself onto the bed and heaving him onto his side. She tugs his jaw down to feel into his mouth for the pills. It must trigger some gag reflex, because Dean chokes and his throat flexes against the intrusion.</p>
<p>Faintly, he hears his dad call 911.</p>
<p>Dean thinks of chubby fingers closing around his finger. Of sunshine across his baby brother's closed eyelids as he dosed off in his stroller while they walked around the park. Of a curious sparkle in a toddler's eyes and the mischievous grin that always meant trouble, but the good kind of trouble. Of the long, soft wisps of hair across Dean's face as they snuggled close. Of bitch faces and rolling laughter and pink blush across round cheeks. Of his name rolling off his brother's tongue to get his attention.</p>
<p>"NO!" he hears his mother scream, dim and fading into a black abyss. "<strong>I can't lose you, too!</strong>"</p>
<p><em>You have no idea</em>, Dean wants to say.</p>
<p>It's too late, though. And Dean's not sorry.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Heaven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Do you believe in heaven?"</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This basically sums up the entire story, except for an actual ending I've got all planned out. Stay tuned for the next chapter! And leave a review with your thoughts, I'd love to hear what you think.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sammy is relaxed, eyed drifting along the sky and clouds with each pass of Dean's hand through his hair. His head rises and falls with the movement of Dean's abdomen as Dean breathes, and the blanket they've spread on the grass soaks in drops of dew from the early morning.</p>
<p>"Are you scared?" Sam asks, voice soft and resigned, curious. He's had to live with the reality of Dean's illness for his entire life, and even though Dean knows it saddens him, Sam has grown to accept it.</p>
<p>"No," Dean answers honestly, though probably not for the reasons Sam assumes. Dean has died so many times, he has lost every ounce of fear towards the concept.</p>
<p>"Do you believe in heaven?" Sam wonders.</p>
<p>Dean's hand pauses in Sam's hair. Sam makes a noise and moves as if to turn to look at Dean's face, and Dean restarts the soft stroking of his scalp, not wanting Sam to see how affected he is by the inquiry. Because the truth is, Dean doesn't know. Heaven can exist, or it can not. In any case, Dean always dies and is reborn. He has never seen heaven. He doesn't know if there's something after death, true, final death. But he hopes there is.</p>
<p>"Heaven is with you," Dean says instead, is and is struck by how corny he sounds. He doesn't mind it, though. He's too peaceful, and Sammy can't see him.</p>
<p>"I can't come with you," Sammy sighs. Dean's hand tightens in his hair and Sam flinches. "Ow."</p>
<p>"Don't come with me," Dean orders, voice rigid.</p>
<p>"Okay," Sam agrees pliantly, and Dean's fingers let go, his nails scratching lightly across Sam's scalp in soothing up-and-downs in apology.</p>
<p>They lie there in silence for the rest of the day, until their mom calls them back. Dean lets Sam fold the blanket and accepts the helping hand the kid offers when they reach the three stairs to the porch. He's weak, and getting weaker, but he's happy.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. A Mile Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes, Dean sees it coming a mile away.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've outlined and even badly-written some of the endgame. It's grand. I can't wait to actually full-on write it. There are a few ways this could go. I'm going for the most complicated. My apologies to the fictional characters in question.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes, Dean sees it coming a mile away.</p>
<p>Like the freak snowstorm that paints the horizon a foreboding dark gray and the mountaintops a cheerful, lethal pearl white.</p>
<p>They've been hearing about it on the news for a few towns now, but Dad hasn't wanted to stop before they hit the so-called ghost-town where his next hunt is taking place. In the end, he drops them off at a held-together-by-a-thread motel off a backroad and takes off immediately after.</p>
<p>Dean is sixteen years old, and a hunter again. There's nothing quite like being a hunter that makes Dean feel at home. Even in those worlds where Mom is alive and they are living a perfect little apple-pie, white-fenced fantasy, it's never quite right. Here, with Sammy wearing ratty clothes and munching on fruit loops straight out of the box, snuggling close to Dean on the springy sofa while they watch flickering TV shows with minimal reception, everything makes sense.</p>
<p>Dean uses the arm he's got wrapped around Sammy's middle to bring him closer against his chest so he can soak in the kid's warmth. He's been feeling something like a cold for the better part of two weeks now that December has rolled in and everything is completely and utterly drenched in rainwater and frost. His chest is not feeling a hundred percent either, and he finds himself wheezing and coughing constantly. Sammy has thrown more than one concerned look his way, but Dean has brushed them all off. He is fine, just needs to warm himself up with little-brother heat and cuddle on the sofa some more.</p>
<p>Sammy tilts his head up for a kiss and Dean complies. Sometimes, when he's lucky, he and Sammy reach the point of no return and things get considerably better. This world is such an occurrence. Dean keeps the kiss dry and close-mouthed. A douse of phlegm is the last thing either of them need. Sammy breathes through his nose and Dean basks in the kid's softness. He has always claimed that Sammy possesses all-natural super-medicinal properties. Forget medical cannabis – breathing Sammy in instantly cures and mends all ills. They should bottle and sell it. Little Sammy-scented whiffs of air for $4.99. They would make a fortune.</p>
<p>A series of violent coughs breaks them apart. Dean's chest constricts and for a moment he feels like he will never breathe again. Sammy is quick to act; sitting up and then helping Dean do the same, rubbing Dean's back.</p>
<p>"Sorry," Dean says when it's over, trying not to lean too heavily on Sam. The kid is only twelve, with hardly enough muscle mass to support Dean's battle-trained physique.</p>
<p>"I hate that this place doesn't have a heater," Sammy tells him.</p>
<p>Dean hates that, too. And he knows what it means for him when the storm really hits.</p>
<p>The thing is, Dean is a rationalist. He's got all the right 'hope and it shall be' attitude but underneath, he's more of an 'it can always get worse' guy. And he knows that he's not getting out of this one unscathed. He would be surprised if he gets out of it at all.</p>
<p>"Come back here, Sammy."</p>
<p>He pulls Sam back, re-positioning them until he is pleased with the result. Dean is covering Sammy head-to-toe, stretched out on top of him and around him like a cave. The kid is wedged in the tight space between Dean and the sofa. It's the warmest Dean can get him. It's a good thing that the kid is so small still, because if he were any bigger, Dean wouldn't be able to shield him so perfectly from weather.</p>
<p>He pulls the flimsy excuse for a blanket, so thin it's practically sheer in some places, over his shoulders. Next, he tucks it under Sam, so they're cocooned like a couple of hot dogs in a freshly-baked bun.</p>
<p>"Try to sleep," he whispers into Sammy's ear. Sammy sighs, shifts under Dean, and then relaxes into the cushions.</p>
<p>Dean watches TV until the power goes out, and then stares at the water stains on the wall behind it until he can't keep his eyes open anymore. It's a testament to how exhausted he is that his body doesn't even start shivering. He just passes out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Boom. Blank. Blackness.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And then, there are times Dean can't see it for the life of him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There you go!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>And then, there are times Dean can't see it for the life of him. Or, well, thereabout anyway.</p>
<p>"Hey, Sammy, did you see the-"</p>
<p>Boom. Blank. Blackness.</p>
<p>Yep, sometimes he doesn't see it at all. It's both better and worse than seeing it looming up ahead. Because when he can spy the signs of impending doom in the distance, he can at the very least try to make sure Sammy is safely out of range for the blast of fate's hand-grenade of tragedy. Now, Dean is pretty certain the explosion – or whatever that was, flashing bright and briefly, extremely excruciatingly – took Sammy out right along with him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Swim, Semen Sammy!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Every single time, Dean has to wait four years and a little over three months for Sammy to be born.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I mean. No one ever thinks of that. But. Well, I did. Ugh.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Every single time, Dean has to wait four years and a little over three months for Sammy to be born. It's all fun and games (and death) until your soulmate is swimming around in your dad's balls and your mom's ovaries and you have to wait for your parents to have sex so you'll stop feeling like you're tipping into insanity with each passing second.</p>
<p>Or perhaps he has long since jumped off the sanity train, because sneaking out of your room to listen to your parents dancing the horizontal tango at three and a half years old is not a healthy occupation for a developing mind, as child psychology books claim.</p>
<p>However, Dean can't help but press his ear to the door, thinking, <em>Swim, semen Sammy, swim!</em> when he hears his father groan.</p>
<p>Dean figures that if he can crawl out of his mom's vagina and then suck milk out of her nipples for months in every new life, then some through-the-door voyeurism is relatively harmless.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Bereft</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lifetimes spent entirely without Sammy are short and hollow.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the last short chapter before we get into heavier parts of the plot. Are you as excited as I am?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When mom or dad dies before Sam is even conceived, Dean crawls to a road and gets himself hit by a car.</p>
<p>When mom miscarries, Dean uses the non-height advantage to sneak out of sight and injects himself with morphine he finds by a patient's bed.</p>
<p>When mom dies while carrying Sammy, Dean goes to the funeral, hugs his dad, makes sure Sammy gets a proper burial. Then he uses a broomstick to topple the box with dad's service pistol and bullets onto the floor and loads two bullets into the magazine before shooting himself in the head, knowing dad would make use of the second bullet before long.</p>
<p>When Dean dies before he gets to see Sammy in one life, he dies with a sense of regret and missed opportunities, and mourns the fact that Sammy would grow up without ever knowing him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Dirty Dancing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean watches Sammy dance.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm just going to go ahead and recommend you search "you will be found #homefest" on youtube, click on the one by The Late Late Show With James Corden, skip ahead to the part where is-there-anything-he-can't-do?! Ben Platt starts singing and just listen.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean watches Sammy dance. The kid, well, he is not a kid anymore, twists and swirls and stretches his body in ways that simultaneously make Dean want to cover him up, and slide up onto the stage to rut against him. Slick, tan, glistening muscles quiver and clench, working hard to carry all that 6'4 toned weight as the kid, Sammy, fuck, as he balances himself horizontally on the gleaming pole like an Olympian acrobat. Well, if it weren't for the pink G-string he is wearing, Dean could totally see the kid, Sam, whatever, go for the gold on a podium. Jesus fucking Christ, it even has tiny pink bows on it on both sides where his hipbones jut out, so sharp they could slice straight through metal.</p>
<p>The song ends and the lights dim, and it is apparently time for Sammy's break because he saunters off the walkway stage, pulling his hair back with both hands into a sweaty pony tail. He has let his hair grow long again, shiny brown locks curling wetly around his ears and sticking to the nape of his neck. Dean wants to cut it. And pull it. And sort of braid it. He is man enough to admit that.</p>
<p>A replacement on stilettoes wearing black leather pants dances his way up to the sound of catcalls and crude slurs. Dean takes that as his cue to sneak backstage and finally meet his brother. Or, not his brother. Not this time. Jesus, this is weird.</p>
<p>A bartender evaded, a security guard on steroids distracted, and Dean is officially in employees-only territory. His heart is pounding, and the alcohol he has been guzzling since the minute he sat down is making his head spin. He shouldn't be drunk for this. He should be stone-cold sober, fucking grateful for this opportunity, because he has worked fucking hard, and searched fucking <em>everywhere</em>, and finally, finally-</p>
<p>"Can I help you?" rumbles a familiar voice.</p>
<p>Dean opens eyes he hasn’t realized he has closed, and is hit with full truck-worth force in the chest by the majestic sight of a robe-clad Sammy, tall and sweet and the best thing Dean has seen in decades.</p>
<p>"You're Derek, right?" Dean forces himself to ask, knowing the answer means a total sum of zilch. Still, it's polite. Or something.</p>
<p>"Yeaahhh…" Sammy looks him up and down suspiciously, and now that Dean can tear his own eyes away from his brother's face, he can see that Sammy is holding a cellphone with his thumb over a luminous, radioactive-green 'Dial' symbol. The world is too blurry for Dean's eyes to make out the number on the bright screen – and lord knows Sammy should know better than to set his brightness setting to maximum, after all the lectures Dean has had to endure over the years about deteriorating eyesight and the destructive effect of too much screen time – but Dean is willing to bet it starts with 9 and ends with 11.</p>
<p>People who come here aren't supposed to know the strippers' names. Not their real ones, anyway. Not that Sam's name is real. Derek. What a douchebag kind of name is that? Dean is half-willing to go with Sammy's sparkly stage name at this point, just to refrain from calling his brother a two-syllable asshole name.</p>
<p>"Can we talk?" Dean says tightly, his body slumping against the nearest wall. He should be sober for this. But what is one to do what one finds out his long-lost reborn-again brother grinds against people for a living? Get shitfaced drunk, is what.</p>
<p>"I don't think so," Sammy says, and it breaks Dean's heart, it does.</p>
<p>Some of what he's feeling – despair, exhaustion, a tiny bit of nausea – must be showing on his face, because Sammy takes one long, contemplative look at him and sighs.</p>
<p>"Fine, but your hands better stay where I can see them, or I'll break your nose."</p>
<p>Dean nods, albeit unsteadily, and takes a shaky breath.</p>
<p>"Through here," Sammy tells him, walking a way down the dirty hallway lined with peeling wooden doors. There are no signs on the doors, no names or marks differentiating them from any of the other doors. Dean wonders which one is Sammy's. If he even gets a 'one', or if he has to share his dressing room with a bunch of other too thin, too underdressed strippers. The thought of Sammy's coworkers being privy to his dressing and undressing has Dean in near hysteria. He doesn't get to have Sam, but an endless, constant flow of strangers do? Not right. This is not right.</p>
<p>Dean follows his brother dutifully, submitting to the frequent wary looks Sam sends his way over his shoulder. <em>Good</em>, Dean thinks. <em>At least he knows not to trust just anyone</em>. Not that Dean is anyone. As far as Sammy is concerned, however, Dean is a drunk pervert like the rest of them. Jesus.</p>
<p>One particularly beaten door leads them outside. The wind howls and kicks and freezes Dean's eyeballs the minute he steps down the three tiny rickety steps and fully into the alley behind the strip club. There are a couple of smokers at the mouth of the alley, and Dean takes a moment to feel caged in before he remembers the gun strapped to his ankle and the knife tucked into his boot. He has managed to sneak both past the security guard at the entrance, who didn't even flinch at being handed an obviously fake ID. Real cream of the crop, that one.</p>
<p>Sammy only wraps his thin, flimsy robe better around his middle and tightens the knot holding it together. Dean huddles into his fleece-lined jacket and grinds his teeth to stop them from chattering. Fuck Sam for being reborn in fucking Maine. The kid is practically Canadian. Fuck that.</p>
<p>"So," Sam prompts, the few hairs that are not tied back billowing around his face wildly.</p>
<p>Dean has thought long and hard how he wants this first meeting to go. He has made battle plans, sketched out scenarios, practiced a few lines in front of the hotel mirror on his way – a long, long way, fucking Maine – and even wrote down bullet-points. All of those are useless, though, because the second Dean looks into Sam's hazel eyes – a storm of blue, green and brown – Dean forgets everything he was about to say. Not one sound comes out. He is left gawking at Sammy, eyes bulging in their sockets, voice caught in his throat, probably looking like he's about to barf.</p>
<p>This goes on for a while – as many as fifteen seconds, if Dean's mind is conscious enough to be trusted with the complex art of preschool-level counting – until Sam frowns down at him – kid's damned tall – and reaches out with one hand. Dean sways forward on his feet, towards the hand, and Sam snatches it back quickly. Huh. What a shame.</p>
<p>"You okay?" Sammy asks softly, voice low and warm and nice. Dean wants to wrap it around himself and sleep for a year or five. Or until this fucked up life resets to something that isn't Dean being rich and Sammy being so poor, he's getting naked for money.</p>
<p>"Thirty grand, for a weekend, will that do?" is what eventually comes out, which isn't the best, but honestly isn't the worst that could have happened, either.</p>
<p>Sam doesn't seem to get it, frowning like he does. Dean waits it out.</p>
<p>"Oh," Sam eventually exhales as the penny drops, eyes wide as saucers. The kid takes a step back. "I'm not-"</p>
<p>"I know," Dean cuts in, stepping forward to maintain the same distance between them as before, "Shit, sorry. I know. I just meant- Like, if-" Dean groans in frustration, running a gloved hand through his hair. He's surprised when it comes back ice-free. His nose feels like it's about to fall off. "What about a lap dance? Thirty thousand for a lap dance okay?" He really should be sober for this, or more crap like that is going to come out of his mouth.</p>
<p>Sam's frown is back in full capacity, eyebrows pulled together and mouth twisting into a classic Bitch Face if Dean's ever seen one. And Dean has. Probably millions of times, by now.</p>
<p>"Listen, man, I don't know who you think you are-" Sammy starts, confrontational and on the offence now. Gone is the nice, gentle giant. Sammy is now standing straight, shoulders back, and Dean wants to hug him and also shove him to the ground and wrestle. Anything. Anything to remind himself of how they're supposed to be. What they're supposed to be. How in the fuck are they not brothers? How is that even possible? "But I don't need your charity. You want a lap dance, you take it up with Vince. Otherwise, leave me the fuck alone."</p>
<p>Sam starts to storm off. He shoves Dean away from the doorway and no, just no. Dean cannot let that happen.</p>
<p>Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the fact that he hasn't slept in a solid week – even though it feels like he hasn't slept since Mom didn't get pregnant and didn't have Sam and <em>everything was just so fucked</em> – but Dean does what is absolutely a physical instinct to him by now and traps Sammy against the brick wall near the door. He pins him to it with ease, since this Sammy hasn't learned self-defense or fought monsters to survive. No, he danced. Pretty little ballerina Sammy. Fucking Maine.</p>
<p>Sam bucks and tries to break free. Dean would tell him that struggling is pointless. If Dean doesn't want Sammy getting away, Sammy isn't getting away. It is that simple. Dean would tell him that, if Dean's mouth wasn't busy trying to impregnate Sammy's pretty pink lips.</p>
<p>It's not okay. Dean knows that, alright? Sammy said no. No means no. But it's Sam, and it has been twenty-eight years since Dean has last seen him, and now the kid has the nerve to try and walk away? Nuh-uh. No way.</p>
<p>"Let me go! Let-" Sammy screeches, probably not used to being in this position, powerless and inferior. He is a big guy, all muscles and height. Dean is willing to bet nobody has ever tried to take from Sammy what his little brother has been giving him willingly and enthusiastically in all those lifetimes.</p>
<p>Dean pushes back, doesn't give an inch. Sammy looks scared now, and that is what snaps Dean out of the haze he has sunk into. His brain aches and he feels like he's underwater.</p>
<p>Sam recognizes the slight slackening of Dean's grip as a lapse in concentration and seizes the opportunity. He lashes out, breaking Dean's hold. Dean loses focus for a second and feels himself fall backwards. The back of his skull meets the ground with enough force to crack the bone. The last thought in his head – <em>at least I fucking deserve it this time.</em></p>
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